Tagged: melodrama

Protip: unless you want to smell like a gateway to hell, don’t do this.

Dante's guide rebuffs Malacoda and his fiends in Inferno Canto 21 between ditches five and six in the eight circle.

Hey, this is nasty.  So just brace yourself for nasty.  You knew I was inappropriate.  I can’t turn this shit off.

LET’S GO!

I often feel like there’s something wrong with me–PROBABLY BECAUSE THERE IS–and like everyone is staring at me (I’m really not interesting enough on the outside for them to be–or am I?) but I don’t often feel like everyone can smell me.  I bathe on the regular.  I mean daily.  Sometimes three times a day, if the man is over and I’m going to get some.  I mean we’re going to have conjugal relations.  S in the E-X.  I guess that would be E-S-X.  Which is how we do, because we are kinky.

So I couldn’t figure why I smelled like a truck stop toilet.  Like really bad, and coming from my Netherlands.  And right after I took a shower.  What the fuck?  I guessed I had an infection in the ol’ punani (my punani is old as the hills), which is terrible, horrible, very bad.  And away from home!  But the thing is: I wasn’t doing anything different, and this was the sickeningest odor ever.

For reals, my ‘nani smelled like a Gateway to Hell.  Usually, I can clear up [I am not a doctor and this is so not recommended] a yeast or bacterial infection with a couple of drops of tea tree oil on a tampon and shove that shit up there and I’m good to go.  So I went to the store to get my oil and felt ashamed.  I hoped they just thought I stepped in shit.

And I did my poor lady cure-all.  And it helped a little.  But I had just had my period and–OH SWEET JESUS NO.  NO PLEASE GOD NO….

..!…?…!

OH yes.  I had left a plug up there and I didn’t know how long it had been up there.  At least 36 to 48 hours.  But maybe even longer than that.  I didn’t remember when I last put a tampon in, I really didn’t.  It was Sunday and the last time I remembered anything tampon-related was Thursday.  This has always been a fear of mine.  I’ve even been to the doctor before because I thought I had one in (didn’t).

AND it took some doing to get it down. I did it myself, but yeah.  Might have to do with the posterior cervix.  Don’t know, don’t care, it’s done.

But Seer: how did it smell?

AND it smelled like a demonic abortion. Like I had had an incident with an incubus and then thought better of the whole affair and found a priest to exorcise that shit with a holy coat hanger.  Like the soul of all the urinal cakes in all of the Port-a-Potties in all of Coachella.  Like the afterbirth of the Echidna, after she pushed Chimera and Cerberus and Hydra and the rest out.  (Did you know/remember they were siblings?  Yeah.)

AND I don’t feel sick.  Doubt that I have toxic shock syndrome.  It’s really systemic sepsis–a full-on staph infection.  Ladies usually get it from dirty hands touching their coochies when they put in a tampon (of course, toilets are straight up ill) and then you get pregnant–with staph.  Congratulations!  It’s sepsis!

SO, that happened.  What did you do today?  Oh.

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Oh, hello there!

Plague Doctor

This is a picture of a Bubonic Plague Doctor. They kept nice smelling stuff in the beak; they thought stink made you catch plague. There are no perfumes that keep the smell of Moms’ crazy down anymore. It’s too late for that.

Hey everybody! I’ve been away from this thing for fucking ever. Will you still read me here? Who fucking knows!

What have I been up to in the past year?  It’s been a year, a whole year since I’ve written on the blog.  I’ve been writing quite a bit, just not here.  But since I got myself a diary and feel I should be making more writing for other people–not just myself and my classmates (especially not my classmates)–I thought I would come back here.

[HERE was some bullshit about OTHER PEOPLE and THEIR BUSINESS but really WHO GIVES TWO SHITS.  IS THAT A QUESTION I don’t know maybe I do but not right now.]

Anyways.  Something else I’ve learned here?  Here is a place in both time and space, temporally and spatially.  I mean in my life and in school both.   Something else: I really, really, really love writing the “experimental” fiction.  Maybe a little too much.  It’s so satisfying.  That’s even worse financially than being a Poet!  I’m also working on some more commercial stuff, but there’s no way I’d share it with my classmates.  They’re okay, but if it ain’t literary fiction, they’re really not digging it.

Yet another thing I’ve learned: bless my stars, my Moms is fucking awful right now.  If she was emotionally fourteen before, I think she’s eleven now, and she is ready to rock!  The woman has arthritis and is taking it to the streets.  She ain’t blind and she don’t like what she sees, Seer!  She had surgery to replace one of her goddamned knees and the way I did things for her was not up to her standards nor did it work for me.

Let’s review the fun:
Please Seer, can I have some more?

Tiny bubbles, flowing gently into the abyss

I have been friends with the Shadow Fairy for nearly thirteen years now. We’ve been through a lot. Hospitalizations, weddings, deaths, divorces, people running away to other states (there have been at least three people we have had in common who have done this on us)–a lot of drama. We’re getting less and less drama. We’re learning to choose better. (Most of the time.)
Please Seer, can I have some more?

Honey Badger don't give a shit.

Look, the world is a honey badger.

Someone got mad at me the other night for some fucking bullshit. She doesn’t know me well, and she’s been sending me hella text messages. That’s fine. Do that. Well, until you send me one Friday night that says, “Sweet Dreams.” That’s kind of crossing a line. That’s when I’m going to leave you a voicemail that says I don’t really answer text messages, and you can leave me them, but I won’t answer them unless you make it clear that you need me to, and that it isn’t personal, because my lover is the only person who gets a text back, really (this is true), and the best way to reach me is to call me. I was super tired, and this may not have come across the way she wanted to hear it. But if she’s sending me “Sweet Dreams” text messages, nothing may have come across the way she wanted to hear it.

Whoa, that’s kind of a creepy text, Seer. I’d just avoid her.

Water torture being executed in Sing Sing prison in 1860. From the Burns Archive

Tiny burdens: death by inches

How was your day?

My day was great. Yesterday, too.

It feels so boastful to say that. Crazy, right? I’m so used to suffering through my life, to admit out loud that I’m really happy seems ego-driven. It’s so different to be excited about what I’m doing, and who I’m meeting, and where I’m going, and what I’m doing. There are extreme challenges, don’t get me wrong, and some of them scare me shitless, and I am terrified sometimes, but I don’t feel like I’m living just to die anymore. I can’t say I believe in a purpose, because that’s not how I roll, but I do feel like I’m going in a direction–in the same direction repeatedly, like I’m making a real pattern for myself, not starting and giving up, or waggling around like a bee-dance, and that’s fantastic.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m not surrounded by people who are hurting.

Please Seer, can I have some more?

Howard Pyle (1853–1911) Marooned

Have I mentioned I have issues with commitment?

Mood in here is crankypants! This post is rambling!

What’s worse than moving? Debt! What’s worse than debt? Moving and debt! Add a hint of blame and serve. Oh for the love of Ke$ha, I’m having some issues lately. My move is getting more exciting by the day.

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That was then, this is now

Lindsay_fight_or_waitQuink sent me an email to check on me today. I told her where I was at (in a bad neighborhood–in my mind), and I decided I would go to yoga for the first time in I don’t know how long. All the way there I told myself that it wasn’t too late to start over.

That’s where I go, you know. It’s too late. It’s too late! Oh dear. I’ve fucked up too much. It’s too late to make things right. Well, it isn’t. So long as I’ve got a breath left in my body, the fight is on. Don’t lose the fight. That’s what I learned from the “Surviving Edged Weapons” video (not for the weak of stomach). And don’t fuck with the Gorton’s fisherman when he’s coming down off meth. Trust him, yes, fuck with him, hell no. Really, I learned so much from it, I can’t tell you.

Please Seer, can I have some more?